


A fragile certain song

by forthegenuine



Series: A deeper season [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-11-02 17:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegenuine/pseuds/forthegenuine
Summary: He couldn't know then, that hours later, his hands and his heart would be exposed raw, and that he would be made to suffer the most excruciating three minutes of his life and, subsequently, its aftermath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My humble offering for Day Six of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017. It's canon compliant for Series 4... with, you know, authorial liberties. Title is inspired by e.e. cummings; I just can't quit the man. Not beta'd or anything, so all errors are wholly mine.

"O Distinct  
Lady of my unkempt adoration  
if i have made  
a fragile certain

song under the window of your soul  
it is not like any songs..."  
––e.e. cummings

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

"Play for me."

Sherlock didn’t know when he realised Eurus was testing him, but he supposed he had been on guard––eyes sharp, ears pricked––ever since he, John, and Mycroft landed on the UK’s own version of Alcatraz. 

“I need to know how you got out of here," he pressed. 

"You know already. Look at me." Eurus deflected, erasing any doubt that she is, in fact, a Holmes, and insisted on both counts, "Look and play."   

He barely struck two notes from Bach's concerto when his sister interrupted him. "No," she said sharply. "Not Bach. You clearly don’t understand it." There was a hint of a challenge in her voice. "Play you."

His chin still on the violin's rest, Sherlock repeated, "Me?" He looked at Eurus then, trying to decipher a sign from her face, if she had somehow worked out that there was, indeed, a secret melody buried deep inside him––one that made him think of brown eyes and… the closest word he can come up with to describe the feeling was _home_ ––longing to be played. 

Thankfully, she gave no such indication. His gratitude was short-lived though, for he felt palpably unsettled by Eurus's stare boring into him, and with every moment, he became less certain of which of them was actually inside a prison cell. 

“You," she insisted.

So he dusted the cobwebs off an old tune that reminded him of the glint of steel and stolen caresses on porcelain skin, one distant night in Karachi. He struggled to concentrate on his playing, faltering a little on more than a few notes, unsure if he was even playing on the right key. He knew, however, like his encounters with its muse––who was probably ensconced in some sultana or senator's bed––the strain was innocuous. 

But still, he was thrown by Eurus's question. "Oh, have you had sex?"

"Why do you ask?" he volleyed. As he listened to his sister recount her sexual conquest––he would find the time to be Victorian and discomforted by it later on––he inwardly fretted over what other knowledge Eurus divined of him. 

"... You couldn’t really tell..."

He couldn't know then, that hours later, his hands and his heart would be exposed raw, and that he would be made to suffer the most excruciating three minutes of his life and, subsequently, its aftermath.

"Is that vibrato, or is your hand shaking?”

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

NSY officer John Rance had certainly hit a career high tonight. Not only was he (sort of) introduced to the famous net detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his blogger, Dr. John Watson, but he also had the honour of escorting the pair back to London. Holmes was using DI Lestrade's mobile, talking to someone with an urgent tone, and nodded at Rance in acknowledgement. His brush with celebrity didn't end there. No sooner had he entered the vehicle behind him and the driver, did Holmes himself ask to borrow his phone to send a quick text. 

"Of course, sir," said Rance, trying to tame the eagerness in his voice. It was't everyday that a consulting detective with an cult internet following asked him for a favour. Holmes returned the phone a few minutes later, and everyone settled in for the long ride home in silence.

At the end of his shift, shortly after sunrise, Rance let curiosity get the better of him. He scrolled through the sent messages folder for Holmes's text. He wondered for an exhilarating moment whether Holmes was onto another case, having closed this last one so dramatically. The message, however, was nothing as sensational as he had imagined.

Please let me explain.  
I'm sorry  
SH

Rance frowned, vaguely wondering what the text meant, but out of respect for Holmes, he permanently deleted the message. He would simply leave this bit out of the story he would tell his mates when they're out for drinks at the pub later that night.

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

Running on the little sleep he got in the car ride back to London, Sherlock––or, more precisely, his lower back and posterior––decided that the metal bench in the ladies' locker of Bart's lab was purely meant for ornament rather than function. His body protested at his attempt to find a more comfortable position, wincing at his tender bruises and aching joints. When the spare phone he'd borrowed from John emitted a muffled vibration in his coat pocket, he moved rigidly to retrieve it. 

Unlocking the screen, he saw that "Lady S" had given him the all-clear. Despite not being given to celestial appeals, he raised his eyes in relief. He must remember to thank Lady Smallwood personally. With his brother currently indisposed, he called in a favour to her at such an ungodly hour, he almost felt guilty. But he needed to make sure that Molly's flat wasn't riddled with undetonated bombs after all, and Lady Smallwood was the only person with the right resources he could trust. 

Another text followed: _Trevors being located_.

 _God_ , he could really use a cigarette right now, he pleaded with the ceiling.

At the sound of footsteps––he'd know them anywhere––he turned his head toward the locker room doorway to find her standing there. "Molly," he pronounced. He stood up quickly, as if by reflex, the soles of his shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor in his haste. He reminded himself of genteel noblemen who stood in the presence of ladies in his mother's period dramas. His sore muscles only cried out a little.  

Molly wore a straight line on her mouth, and her knuckles whitened as she held her handbag tighter. She deliberately walked passed him, eyes intent on her locker. She divested herself of her civilian outerwear and put on her lab coat. He caught her eyes momentarily in the mirror hanging on her locker door, but she slammed it shut before they could make proper contact. He didn't need her to turn around and say so, but she said it anyway, "I don't want to talk to you right now, Sherlock."

He certainly didn't need to hear the plaintive, tired tone in her voice. He understood. "Okay," he said in a soft voice, not minding at all if she heard it crack between the two small syllables. He turned his body to leave, and over his shoulder––ignoring the sharp pain of his stiff neck––he repeated what he said to her through the ether earlier that morning, and hoped she understood, too. "I'm sorry."

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

"So," John began casually, dusting his hands together in a poor attempt to rid them of soot. "You been in to see Molly yet?"

"Molly?" Sherlock echoed absently, his eyes fixed to the ground while he spun in a small circle, trying to find an empty spot on the charred floor.

"Molly _Hooper_ ,” John clarified, as if he and Sherlock were burdened with the acquaintance of a confusing abundance of Mollys. 

"Yes, Molly. No, I haven't," which wasn't really a lie. Sherlock's expression darkened slightly at the memory. He groaned quietly as he set down the blackened bison skull on an area of the floor he and John just finished sifting through.

"Yes, you have," John insisted. "What happened?"

"She didn't want to see me."

"You talk to her?"

"I apologised," Sherlock replied vaguely. He looked about his immediate circumference, sweeping for an object of distraction from the conversation. He mentally red-flagged all future conversations with John that began with long, drawn out “So”s.

"For what?” John continued to press.

"General, blanket sort of apology." He waved his hands indistinctly in the air, as if to illustrate.   

"Sherlock, you know you're going to have to get better at––whatever that is..." John in turn, gestured at Sherlock's general direction. 

He bit back an impulse to snap at his friend, _And what exactly is it, John?_ That's something the old Sherlock would do. He ran his hands through his messy hair of curls, if only to keep his unoccupied hands from trembling. He sighed and looked at John for the first time, and said solemnly, "I know."

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

end part i 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! An update should follow soon. Kudos and comments are greatly (and gratefully!) appreciated. I'm always on the lookout for Sherlolly blogs to follow and stalk, so please come say hello on Tumblr. Cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate your patience as I had to rework some things out for this story. Hope you enjoy!

“It destroys you every time… Now please, pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn’t going to be so easy.” The metal door on the other side of the room slid open, accompanied by Eurus’s invitation, her voice devoid of even a hint of sarcasm. “In your own time…”

John shook himself, pushing aside the short-lived relief in the safety of one friend and short-sighted pity for the emotional distress of another, and followed Mycroft toward the next room. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sherlock had not followed him. Near the doorway, he looked on as Sherlock gingerly placed the lid on the coffin and lightly traced the surface of the wooden panel with his fingers. He heard him sigh softly. “Sherlock,” John beckoned, half in question.

“No…” he responded, more to himself than in answer to John. “No!” he cried, louder this time, and his face contorted into something primal. When John lived at Baker Street, he had been spectator to Sherlock’s many tantrums––spurts of manic, restless energy that exhausted itself on furniture or any poor sod (sometimes himself) who crossed his path; this was altogether different. The two men watched Sherlock pummel the empty coffin to pieces with his bare hands, the clatter of the gun when it hit the ground lost beneath anguished howls that amplified the distant sound of thunder crashing outside. 

As much as it pained him to witness, there was something familiar about the scene to John. The ache he carried inside him the past four months pulsed in sympathy with Sherlock––and suddenly John came to understand something about the last four minutes. 

But it must wait.

When the storm subsided, John picked up the gun. He felt it tap against his wedding ring as he held it, still warm from Sherlock’s grasp. He cleared his throat and approached Sherlock, shards of wood crunching under his feet. He looked defeated, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall, arms on his knees and breathing heavily. As he moved closer, John saw that Sherlock’s whole body appeared to be convulsing, the aftershocks of sheer emotion. 

“I know this is difficult and I know you’re being tortured, but you’ve got to keep it together,” he said, in the calmest voice he can muster, given the situation. 

“This isn’t torture. This is vivisection,” Sherlock corrected, his hands still trembling. “We’re experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats.” He let out a sound that was at once a shudder and mirthless laughter at his own analogy. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of Mycroft, who had not said a word, and swallowed. Sherlock looked up at John, and in a quiet but steady voice declared, “Soldiers.”

John affirmed his word without the loss of a beat. “Soldiers.”

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

He had just secured a table for them at a cafe, halfway between Bart's and his clinic, when he saw her come in. Molly waved at him cheerfully in recognition. 

"Thanks for meeting with me," said John, as she sat down opposite him.

"Of course." 

He slid a hot mug across the table. "I hope oolong's all right?"

"It's perfect. Thank you. Is Rosie with Mrs. Hudson today?"

"Mm," he corroborated, taking a sip from his coffee. "Mrs. H read on Twitter that baby penguins have descended on London Zoo. She thought Rosie might like to see them. I told her Rosie can't even tell the difference between her toes and..." he trailed off when he noticed Molly surreptitiously scanning the faces of the patrons in the shop, while half-listening to him. “You know, he's really not here,” he finally interrupted, setting his drink on the table.

Molly blushed, confirming his hunch. “Sorry." 

“His disguises aren't even that good anyway, being honest,” he conceded, to which they both snickered. But then he added thoughtfully, “Except for the one." 

"What do you mean?"

Deciding to answer her question a different way, he abandoned the pretense of small talk, and went straight to the heart of the matter. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice lowered. “Have you talked to him lately?"

A fraction of her smile faltered when she suspected John's presence here as damage control. _These two really are meant for each other_ , he thought. 

"How much do you already know?" she asked.

He shook his head. "That's not important. What's important is what he's told _you_." 

She seemed to consider this for a moment. 

"Look, this isn't my area. Mary's––" he paused to correct himself, "Mary–– _was_ ––much better at this sort of thing." For a fleeting moment, he worried that the day would come when he wouldn't have to correct his own verb tenses. He was grateful today was not the day. He went on, because this wasn’t about him. “For the record, Sherlock didn’t ask me to talk to you. In fact, he probably wouldn’t want me talking to you about this. But then, he’s an idiot.” Better to blunder through this than leave it unsaid _._ “I was in the room when he said… those words to you, Molly.” Her eyes grew wide at this, but he continued, “… and you should know, I think––I _know_ ––he meant them.” He could see her turning this over in her mind. “Something's happened. Something big. It's not my place to tell you anything more, but it _is_ my business to know that you're happy.” Molly’s face softened a little. A good sign. “I think he's waiting for you––until you're ready to talk. So, please, when you are, go to Baker Street and see for yourself."

They sat for a moment, letting John’s words settle between them amidst the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft chatter of cafe patrons. Molly took a long draft of her tea. 

"And one more thing?” She looked up. “Christ knows you've already done enough for him, but if you can find it in your heart, go easy on him. He's new at this."

"New at what?” Molly asked, lowering the mug from her lips.

“This––being human.” He offered her a small, hopeful smile. Mostly, he was hoping he didn’t bungle this up too badly. His grin widened when managed to eke out the beginnings of a smile from her.

"You're a good friend, John."

"Yeah,” he scoffed lightly. “He's lucky to have me."

"No, I meant... you're a good friend to me."

"Eh," he dismissed. It was his turn to blush, though he hoped it didn’t show. ”You’re not too bad yourself,” he told her warmly.

Just then, both their phones buzzed, alerting them that Martha Hudson added new photos and a video to the _Rosie_ album on the cloud.

"Now then," John said, squinting at the notification badge on his photo app. "How do I get to that bloody shared album again?" 

She smiled at him fondly and held out her palm for his mobile. “Give it here.”

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

end part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have this HC that Molly is like the gang's tech person. Anyway, thank you reading, and for hanging in there!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies to readers who’ve been waiting for an update to this story. Real life and six other one-shots got in the way. But anyhow, I fortuitously finished the chapter on this date (according to my calendar at least), of all days––the first year anniversary of the beautiful scene from "The Final Problem" this story revolves around. I cannot believe it’s been one glorious year of fangirling. Please enjoy!

“I won," Sherlock repeated. He tried his best not to notice the fleeting triumph in his voice had reluctantly given way to desperation, even as he said it. "I saved Molly Hooper." He looked squarely at his sister's face on the screen as if he were talking directly to her, searching for some sort of reprieve, knowing none was in store.

She let out a scornful laugh. “Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn’t win. You lost. Look at what you did to her." His heart dropped then. But Eurus, her voice a barely contained combination of derision and delight bubbling just beneath the surface, continued, "Look at what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions. I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time.”  

He blocked out what she’d said after that. _What had he done?_ And more importantly, _why hadn’t he seen this coming?_ He drifted to the opposite side of the room, away from John and Mycroft. Setting the handgun down somewhere, he paused in front the lid that leaned against the wall. His eye caught the three words for a moment, and his jaw clenched. The image of Molly on the screen, cradling her mobile against her cheek with tears she thought he couldn't see running down her lovely face, glowed like an afterimage whenever he closed his eyes. 

Moving deliberately, he picked up the lid and placed it on the open coffin. He brushed his hand over it, stubborn and solid under his fingertips. For the moment, it was the only thing he could wrest his control over, and he wanted nothing less than to shut the world out to what he dared not imagine it might have contained. He wanted to erase, to obliterate every molecule of the offending thing from existence. 

Instead, he settled for shattering it with his hands. 

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

She turned his words over and over in her mind, like one of those Boomerang things on social media that looped video into eternity, but in her case, Sherlock's tinny voice over the phone was replaced with surround sound audio. _I love you_ … _I love you_ … 

John said he meant the words… but what did that even mean? She wavered back and forth between possible answers to that question. The only thing she decided was that she had never been more cruel to herself than when she taught herself to hope.

“Dr. Hooper?”

Molly looked up to see an intern with worried, questioning eyes, and a rather intimidating-looking stack of files in her hands. “Sorry, did you want these lab reports now... or I can come back later?” 

“Oh, sorry, Semah. I'm afraid I'm a little distracted...” she said, clearing some space at her work station. “You can set them down here.”

When she was alone again, Molly talked herself into keeping busy. _Idle hands…_ and so forth. But when she found she had been rereading the same in-patient/discharge form––for a patient who wasn’t even hers––for the fifth time, she threw her readers off and pushed her chair back. With a roughness not normally associated with retrieving her keys, she swiped them from where they hung on the wall and made her way toward the ladies’ locker room.

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

“What happened here?"

He looked up at the sound of her voice, not realising there was someone else in the room until she spoke. For a fraction of a second, he thought his weary mind might have conjured her up, but there she stood. 

“Molly,” its namesake already on his mind, her name slipped from his tongue like a reflex. He stood abruptly from his sunken chair, ignoring the soreness of his recovering muscles and for keeping those muscles in the same attitude for a bit longer than the few minutes’ break he granted himself from tidying up. “This wasn't one of my experiments, promise." For some reason, he felt the need to recuse himself of fault, at the very least, for the physical state of his flat.

"It looks like a bomb exploded in here." 

"More or less..." he faltered. The doubtful look she threw told him that she wasn't in the mood for any dissembling. "It did,” he declared succinctly.

"You weren't home when it happened," she said, her inflection rising at the end to something halfway between a statement and a question.

His non-response was enough of an answer.

She gaped in astonishment. "But how did you...?"

"There was a window… of opportunity…” he said, and his eyes drifted northeasterly to where flimsy cardboard screened them from the rest of Baker Street below. “John and Mycroft were here, too."

"Oh my g––! Are they okay? No, I mean, yes... I just saw John today."

"They're both fine."

"What happened?" she repeated.

"I had hoped not to involve you in any of this..." This being just the beginning of his many apologies. “But circumstances couldn't be helped. The fibres of the web radiated farther and more intricately, more tangled, than I imagined."

Her brow furrowed, and she mulled this over. "Moriarty?" she ventured.

He shook his head. “My sister."

Her eyes widened at this. It was one of the few times in his life he took no pleasure in a dramatic reveal. “What?” she exclaimed in a kind of hushed disbelief. 

"I... have a sister." The words felt foreign on his tongue, even after owning the knowledge for nearly a week now. He surveyed what this knowledge had already dredged up. In a weary voice, he said, "It's a long story."

Her reply was simple, resolute. “I've got time.”

A short pause lingered between them until Sherlock, realising that there was nowhere for Molly to sit among the wreckage, extended his hand in a gesture indicating his bedroom. It remained untouched by the explosion, the shock from which was absorbed mostly by the living room and kitchen. 

He followed her down the hallway, and his hand went automatically to shut the bedroom door as habit dictated. He stopped himself in time, thankfully. He certainly did not want to endanger this truce by seeming untoward. She went to sit on his bed, placing her handbag on the floor next to her feet, and looked up at him expectantly.

He drew a nervous breath, and he told her: about the woman who claimed to be Faith Smith; about John's therapist (though he left out John's relationship with “E”… not his story to tell); about his forgotten sister, who spent most of her life in a high-security prison; about her connection to Moriarty; and about her elaborate cry for help by carelessly subjecting him, and complete strangers, to various tests.

“Those poor people…” she murmured, a hand clutched at her chest. 

“The phone call…” he finally admitted, unheeding of his complete lack of grace. He let the words tumble out, spilling from himself like they should have when he saw her earlier that morning, as though there was a very real danger that his listener could be taken away. He told her about the coffin, and Eurus’ threat if he didn’t get her to say the release code. “You know the rest.” He gave her sad look in recompense. “Turns out there were no explosives in your flat. It was a test,” he bit out, but his tone was one of penitence. “I am sorry for my part, for what I did to you…”

He tried to discern the grave expression on her face. It was one of schooled composure, marred only by the underlying gravity in her eyes. He knew her well enough to know that she did it for his sake. His insides ached for her even more, feeling unworthy of what he had not realised he had been longing for, of what he was about to ask for.

“I have always imagined–– _feared_ that my work would end up hurting the people that I cared about… the people that I loved. I already let that happen with Mary,” he swallowed, pushing some of the guilt down. “And still I thought that if I got it right, maybe someday, I could deserve someone like you…” No, that sounded wrong. “Deserve _you_.” He felt a sharp prick behind his eyes, and he noticed Molly’s eyes had become watery, too. “Moriarty had no idea. Magnussen, Smith. None of them. But Eurus knew. She exploited a part of me that I’ve kept hidden away, even from myself. And now I fear I––I’ve spoiled everything.”

Molly remained silent for several moments, but it didn’t hold the same satisfaction for Sherlock as it usually did when he rendered someone speechless. She swiped a hand quickly at her cheek. Her reply, when it came, was much like its owner––quiet and reassuring. “You haven’t spoiled anything.” He would have rushed to her then, but she wasn't done. “We don’t deserve the people in our lives, Sherlock. The universe doesn’t work that way. At least, I don’t think so. We just…” she offered, with a little shrug and an even smaller smile. It gave him hope. “We do the best we can,” she finished. 

Another silence sat between the two. Sherlock could only stare at her, wholly awed. After a few moments more, Molly stirred, and picked up her bag from the floor and looked as though she was about to rise.

“Wait,” he pleaded, hoping the decibel of his voice hadn’t reached a shouting level. “Please,” he said, softer. “There’s something I need to show you.”

He slid his violin case from underneath the bed. He tuned the instrument before placing it under his chin, his other hand poised with the bow. And he played _him_ ––he played simply, himself. 

He played for her, a sweetly sad song––fragile, yet certain. He played for her as if from memory, though he had never played it out loud before, nor had he ever put the song to paper. He played for her, giving sound to a measure that has been playing on loop inside his head since before his fall. Or maybe even before then. He played for her until the wounds on his hands cried out. He played for her with nothing between the notes and his heart. 

“It... it’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“It’s for you," he offered without pause.

"Why?" Her voice was low. 

He blinked. “You know why.” She _must_ know, after everything... There was something faintly familiar about the course of the words they exchanged. 

"Well... if it's true," she said slowly, as if reading his mind, "then say it anyway."

 _Say it?_ he thought. He wanted to stand on the steps of the National Gallery and proclaim it for every stranger in Trafalgar Square to hear. The compulsion almost rivaled his desire to whisper it to her in the quiet aftermath of night, her limbs tangled in his that neither of them knew where the other began. But his brain had run away from his body again. He silenced them both, and let his heart speak. 

"I love you, Molly Hooper. Really, and truly.”

A choked laugh escaped her lips, and though there were tears in her eyes––he imagined his were no different––she smiled. She said the words he knew he would never tire of hearing, “I love you, too. Always.”

 

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

 

end part iii

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so we've obviously not got to the kissing (and other stuff) yet, but trust me, they're coming. I'm very confident you won't have to wait too long for an update this time round.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and bearing with me! Feedback is greatly appreciated, as always. Happy First Year (and many more to come)! Cheers xo


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